


Losing Reality and Losing You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hallucination!Sherlock, M/M, Sad, dark!fic, does sadness make it a, kind of, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "The things you wanted to say, but didn't say them,"John thought of the laundry list of things that he wanted to say to Sherlock."Say them now."Set between season 2 and 3, John was extremely broken up about Sherlock's death. When he starts seeing a hallucination of Sherlock, he learns something about himself that will change the course of his life forever.





	Losing Reality and Losing You

John knew, maybe not immediately, but he knew that when Sherlock jumped off of the hospital roof, his life would be in shambles. What he did not know was just how broken up he would be.

For the first few days, John couldn't speak. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't move from his chair and do anything except stare at his friend's seat asking himself, why, why did he kill himself. Why would he leave John without anyone? Why would he lie about who he was in his last minutes? Because John didn't believe Sherlock when he said the last couple of years were all made up. A trick, he said. He needed to believe in his friend, he owed that much to him. Hell, he owed him so much more, but that was all he could do.

The funeral was a small occasion. Most of his friends from Scotland Yard didn't show up, because they didn't believe in Sherlock. John wanted to be angry at them for disgracing the great, no, good man, but he didn't have the energy. The only people who showed up were Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft. Lestrade and Mycroft didn't shed a tear. John didn't let anyone see him cry, although he figured everyone probably could tell that he did. No one spoke to him except for the occasional words of sympathy.

 The first time he saw Sherlock, he was eating breakfast, a bowl of dry cereal, and walking back from the kitchen. As he turned around after closing the cupboard, he saw the one person he wanted to see more than anything, but who was impossible for him to be making eye contact with. 

"It seems we have ran out of milk," he said sitting in his chair, the one that despite what Mrs. Hudson asked, stood untouched in the same spot it had always been. 

John was frozen for a moment before stuttering out, "You, you can't be here."

"And yet, here I am, sitting right in front of you." 

"You died. I saw you die. I went to your funeral. You were, _are_ , dead." 

"Or did I?" 

They were both silent as John thought about the situation. He never saw Sherlock hit the ground. He could've faked it, and be here today. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Except for one part, "You never walked in here. I would've heard the stairs creak and the door open." He turned around, not wanting to look at the mirage behind him.

"Very good, John. You are correct; I am not actually Sherlock. But just because I am not him doesn't mean I am not real, right?"

"I am _not_ crazy, and I am not going to become the local pigeon lady." He left the room and went to go lay down and try to sleep, unsuccessfully he would soon see. 

That was the first time he saw the hallucination.

 

*****

 

He was walking back to the hospital to scold Sherlock for lying to him about Mrs. Hudson being in danger. His phone rang and he answered it to hear Sherlock crying. "It's your fault, all your fault." He trailed off as he broke down and jumped off. John couldn't move as he fell down, landing about two meters in front of him. His eyes lost all color and his face had trails of blood streaming down from his nose. All John could do was look at the dead body in front of him while his last words echo in his mind.

John woke up sweating from the typical nightmare. The clock displayed 3:47 a.m. and he knew he wasn't going back to sleep again so he layed on his bed and stared up at the ceiling trying to regain his breath.

John skipped breakfast and went to the bathroom to fix his hair, which for his usual self was—

"Dishevelled? A complete wreck? Honestly, John, you have completely let yourself go, and in just a few days!" John jumped at the voice in the empty room. He ignored it, and returned to combing his thin, brown hair with his fingers. 

"John, can't you stay here? Why do you have to go to work?" Sherlock asked childishly, "Wouldn't you rather skip your boring job and stay here with me?" 

"You aren't here, you are not Sher—not him." His voice cracked as he struggled to speak to the image.

"But Sherlock and I look the same, talk the same, act the same, we are the same! Just because no one else can see me doesn't mean I am not Sherlock," He pleaded.

"I want you to leave me alone." John looked at the ground. He was unable to look at photos of his friend in the papers, much less face this hallucination of him.

"Well you obviously don't," John expected a deduction from how he positioned his chair or held his hands in front of him or some other ridiculously insignificant detail only Sherlock would see, "If I am here, it is because you have some unfinished business with me."

"What, like a ghost?" John exclaimed, startling Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door to make sure John was up and ready for work. She was incredibly helpful in his life over the past few days. She woke John up and made sure he was eating even if he didn't want to. In addition, she never complained about doing any of it. She truly was a life saver.

Mrs. Hudson sounded surprised when she spoke, to which John ignored as he usually did. Before, he just didn't have the energy to speak, but here, he was listening to the reply from Sherlock.

"No, John, a ghost will hurt you and the people you love and won't try to finish their story. I want you to be happy, and in order to do that, you must figure out what your unfinished business with me is, and complete our story."

_But this isn't a story, this is real life, and our story was interrupted._

John left, mumbling a thank you to Mrs. Hudson, and headed to work at the same building his friend took his own life at.

 

*****

 

"The things you wanted to say, but didn't say them,"

There was a pause. John thought about the laundry list of things that he wanted to say to Sherlock.

"Say them now."

The voice was calming but didn't help the pain that he felt just thinking about the unspoken words he still has, or the things he could say that would have saved him. He was on the phone with him, and yet he couldn't manage to say anything to keep him from giving up permanently. He held onto so much anger towards himself that he may never be free of. 

"I can't," He whispered, holding back tears, "I can't say them."

 

*****

 

The question of what Sherlock and John's unfinished business was all the doctor thought about. How does he complete the story so he can finally have closure? Closure. That was the dream. This was reality.

John, going through the motions of life, didn't speak to his friend much. The other didn't say anything either, but just stared, waiting for John to be the first one to break the ice in the room with no one else in it, but an awkward silence between the two. 

There was so much left to their story, it seemed, that he couldn't begin to figure out what the end game was. What it should have been, at least. He thought the end was them retiring with a wife and kids, getting together to have dinner and play board games, where Sherlock would complain about how unrealistic the rules were and everyone would be happy. But in real life, stories don't end with a happy ending. All stories end with death. And no matter who you are, or how you die, death is not a happy ending.

So he isn't trying to figure out how to end their story. The story is ended, and nothing can change that. But the book has empty pages and unanswered questions. So John needs to complete their story, chronicled in his blog, by filling in the blanks and answering the questions.

So what was the one thing he wanted to tell Sherlock, more than anything, to complete their story? If they were characters, it would make Sherlock's death complete his character arc instead of making everything feel incomplete. As a storyteller, life is easier to make since of if he thinks of everyone as a character in a story where he is the protagonist. How could he complete this unfinished story?

"You are missing the obvious, John."

John was startled by the voice, but could use some help from a friend, "Care to enlighten me, Sherlock?"

"I don't need to tell you, you already know." He lazily spoke as he looked out the window at the busy streets.

"That's ridiculous. I think I would have mentioned it by now."

"I am you, John. I might look and act like Sherlock, but I only know what you know, and you know what you have to do, what you have to say."

"There is too many things I wanted to do with you, Sherlock! I wanted to grow old together, and bicker like the old men we would have been. I wanted for us to be each other's best mans at our weddings. I wanted to defeat Moriarty so we weren't being threatened by a psychopath. I wanted my kids to visit Uncle Sherlock and you would condescendingly help them with their homework while complaining about the education system to me." John was in full tears shouting at his friend, who shared emotionlessly back at him. "I wanted to finish the game."

Sherlock watched the shorter man cry in silence for a moment. "John,"

His face softened as he spoke. "The things you wanted to say, but didn't say them," He paused, "Say them now."

"What things? The things I kick myself everyday for not saying on the phone because they might have been enough to save you?" He shouted.

"No, John, the things you have wanted to say since you shot that serial killer on our first case. Or when we were standing aside the pool where Moriarty had murdered someone for the first time. The things you never got a chance to say because of fear. The things that wouldn't complete my story, or your story, but our story." Sherlock pleaded with him to understand and luckily, John did.

Both of the men were crying as John was finally forced to face his biggest regret. "Sherlock," He finally started, "I love you." He couldn't say much more for a moment. "I love you and I will never be able to grow old with you by my side. I will never be able to say my vows at our wedding. I will never be able to defeat Moriarty with you. I will never be able to raise a child, a very smart child with you. I will never be able to finish our game."

"He knows." Sherlock said as he was pulled in for their first and last kiss. John could feel the taller man fading away as he finally completed his story. He held onto his dark, curly hair and tried to savor every moment of this.

Have you ever been in a moment where everything is perfect and you know it will soon end so you look around, and try to preserve every detail. You try to capture how everything looks, how it sounds, smells, feels, everything. Because in the future things won't be as perfect as they are now and you want to be able to return to its memory and everything is the exact same as it was when you were there. What if this moment was the best things were ever going to be? What if you knew that the rest of your life was going to be full of emptiness and regret, and all you had was this moment. If you can imagine that feeling, then you can _almost_ imagine how John must have felt in this short moment.

 As the last bit of Sherlock faded away, John pulled away and looked up at him. "Hamish. John Hamish Watson," He smiled through tears.

Sherlock smiled back, "Good to know."

And he disappeared.

 

*****

 

The next two years weren't easy. John knew they wouldn't be. Once his heart was opened up to Sherlock, it was very difficult to move on and find someone else. But he knew that the real Sherlock would never have kissed him back, so he eventually managed to find someone else. He fell in love with a very sweet lady named Mary. She was very nice and funny and was helpful when John was still grieving up to the day he was going to propose to her. 

John had moved out of 221B shortly after he found closure and the hallucination left. He was luckily able to find a place to live. He didn't talk to Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, or anyone he met through Sherlock. Mycroft probably kept up with him, when he wasn't too busy, but John hadn't spoken to him since the funeral. 

John had created a new life. He had a new house, new love interest, new friends. He lived like any other ordinary person would in London. He saw less and less of the battlefield, although he could still recognize it when it became very apparent to him. Sometimes he wanted to show Sherlock the papers when it had a small article about a local suicide or murder they could check out. But that was his old life, and a new chapter was supposed to begin today.

John has spent the past few weeks looking for the perfect ring and planning this date night. He places the ring in the center of the table and adjusts it slightly. He knows that he looks incredibly nervous but suppresses it and watches his future wife walk over to the table. 

Everyhing is right. He would get married and live a happy, normal life. Just him, Mary, two and a half kids, and a few dogs. All he has to do is get through this proposal. 

Until the proposal is interrupted by an old friend, and everything John has built for himself came crashing down.

And that was just the first day.


End file.
